


are you there, sweetheart?

by Anonymous



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Defender!Elektra, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hallway Fight, Post-Season/Series 2, Reunions, Role Reversal, Temporary Character Death, Vigilantism, awkward reunion, elektra getting stockholm'd by nyc, nothing more awkward than almost being murdered by your dead boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-12-18 00:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11863086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The sticking point of it is this:He died in her arms.Matt dies in the fight against Nobu. this is Elektra, in the aftermath.





	1. there's nowhere to go

**Author's Note:**

> title from Richard Siken's "Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out".
> 
> done for a kink meme prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Richard Siken's "I Had A Dream About You."

They bury him on a Sunday.

Karen Page sobs through the eulogy, and Franklin Nelson stands there, still as a statue, as if he's been drained of all his tears and all that is left now is a numbness in his heart. This, Elektra knows just as well as he does.

She doesn't _attend_ the funeral, per se. She stands outside the church, instead, wonders what might've happened, if it had been her. Would Matt stand outside, as she's doing now? Would he be giving the eulogy? Would she even have a funeral, a white casket, people mourning her loss?

She doesn't think so.

And yet she cannot envy Matt these things. That he has these things doesn't matter, because he's not here anymore, he will never—

He will _never_ be, again.

She shuts her eyes against the hot sting of tears.

\--

The sticking point of it is this:

He died in her arms.

Romantic stuff, you know. The kind of thing she'd have laughed at in a movie, because it was so clichéd, so stupid, so dramatic.

It's less so when it happens to you. When you can feel the blood on your hands, hear the choking wet sounds, see the struggle for every breath, every word. _Matthew, stay with me. Matthew, please. Stay with me, love. Stay. Stay, stay, stay—_

But he hadn't.

So—that's what love feels like. Blood on her hands, a corpse in her arms, the rain soaking her through to the bone.

\--

She does not— _intend_ to stay in the city, is the thing.

She's never quite seen the appeal of New York City, except what was embodied within Matthew Murdock, and he's dead and buried and gone. So she packs her things up, and goes out one last night to—to do something, feel something, she doesn't know.

She stumbles on crime almost by accident. The girl is young, her eye swollen shut, cowering as a man looms over her, slurring his words, trying to grab at her purse.

Elektra sees red, and drops down from the rooftop. The man swings a knife at her, and she ducks easily, breaks his arm and throws him aside into a wall. She swings her sai, intending to make an end of it.

The girl whimpers, says, "No, please—just let me go _home_."

Elektra turns to look at her, and sees a young girl, just barely out of her teens. She's never seen a man die before, Elektra realizes, never taken a life, hasn't ever truly been in danger until now.

"I just want to go home," the girl repeats, eyes wide and terrified.

Elektra kicks the man in the head, when he stirs. She turns to the girl and says, "Where do you live? I'll take you there."

\--

The girl thanks her, afterwards, hugs her as if Elektra is not a killer, as if she is worthy of love and hugs.

Elektra's still in New York, the next night. She stops a robbery of a small family-owned store and gets a free homemade waffle out of it. She stops four muggings, and two of the victims run away, two of the muggers end up slightly impaled, one runs away screaming when she drops from the fire escape. She stops a john from forcing himself on a woman, stops a kidnapper from taking away a young boy, stops petty crime after petty crime.

She's not always so well-received, but by the time she climbs back through her window, exhausted and bleeding a little, she thinks of the girl who'd hugged her, the bright light in her eyes. She thinks of the little boy, whispering _thank you you saved me thank you_ into her leg before she swung him up, squeaking delightedly, into her arms. She thinks of Matt, stupid and brave Matt, the devil and the martyr.

"Damn it, Matthew," she says, out loud. "I asked you to _stay_."

But he didn't, and now she thinks—damn it, she has to get out of this city before it claims her the same way it did Matt, sinks its claws into her heart the same way Matt did, because there's only one way that ends: a white casket, a grey headstone.

\--

She does not.

\--

She buys an apartment. She gets better armor—Matt's armor is too big for her, and anyway she has other ideas about protection. She builds up a network of contacts, in both the underworld and the world of Elektra Natchios, philanthropist and diplomat's daughter.

She visits Matt's grave and says, "Look what you've done to me, Matthew. Now _I'm_ the one defending your city." She kneels down, traces fingers over the inscription on his headstone: _A Good Man._

The black stone is cold, smooth against her fingertips. She closes her eyes and imagines phantom fingers, trailing through her hair. _Sweetheart._

"Look at what you've left behind," she says, into empty air.


	2. hey, kid, take the stage and deliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She looks up, sees men with tranquilizer guns aiming at her and Rand._
> 
> _“Joining the party?” she asks, cheekily, just before they charge her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Panic! at the Disco's "Mercenary".

Midland Circle is all sleek lines and sharp edges ready to cut, soulless white and silver with a splash of black here and there for variety.

It’s hilarious, really, how these people are barely even trying to disguise their evil. It’s a miracle Elektra’s managed to keep a straight face through this whole meeting, in her red, red dress and black heels.

She should’ve worn white, she thinks. Damn shame her best white jacket’s stained with blood, from taking down a would-be mugger just two days ago.

“And so it would be beneficial for your company, Miss Natchios,” says the suit at the head of the table, who’s been steering the meeting since Elektra got here, “if you were to partner with us.”

Last week Elektra had dropped by her favorite falafel place in Hell’s Kitchen, hungry after a night’s work. The man who owned the place had told her, then, about a black van that had been parked outside a brownstone near his apartment all day.

Elektra’d run the plates. Someone from this very company was spying on a family that had just suffered a recent death, the mother still grieving the sudden death of her husband, the daughter lashing out in anger and pain.

She smiles at the suit and thinks _go to hell._ Out loud she says, “It’s a very tempting offer, I’ll admit, but I find myself having to ask: what would partnering with a company such as mine bring to you? I can’t imagine it’s the prestige, we’ve only just planted roots here a year ago.”

“We’re very curious,” says a man to her left.

“We pride ourselves on being risk-takers,” says another, to her right.

“Yes, about that,” says Elektra, idly spinning the pen in her hand, “I did hear some rumors, here and there. Is Midland Circle really branching out into the security field?”

“We like to keep our options open, Miss Natchios,” says the suit at the head. “Security does seem to be one of the country’s foremost concerns, these days.”

“But what about—” Elektra starts.

She never finishes her sentence, because that’s the moment Danny Rand bursts inside, burning with a righteous fury so very out of place on a businessman. She turns, surprised at his boldness and utter stupidity as he speaks about his family’s business and the Hand—this is the Immortal Iron Fist, protector of K’un-Lun? Fuck.

“And you thought you got away with it,” Rand snarls, a woman in grey and white just behind him, her blonde hair pinned up into a bun. “But I know who you are. You’re the Hand, and I’m gonna make sure you—”

“Right, well,” says Elektra, standing up, thinking _fuck fuck fuck_ , “I suppose that’s _my_ cue—”

“Mr. Rand! Miss Natchios!” a woman’s voice rings out, calm and cheery, and Elektra turns to see a woman in muted gold stepping into the room, smiling pleasantly at both of them. “How pleasant to see you both in the same room together.”

The woman’s heels click on the marble tiles, her hand resting lightly on Rand’s as if talking to a child. Then she stops near Elektra, and the empty politeness to her smile melts away, replaced by a kind, almost maternal softness. But her _eyes_ —

Elektra’s hand slips into her bag, fingers curling around the hilt of her sai. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she says, cheerful.

“Miss _who_ ,” says Rand. The woman’s hand is still on his shoulder, and she gives an absentminded pat. “And who _are_ you?”

“I appreciate your candor and your passion, Mr. Rand,” says the woman, smoothly, “just as I appreciate your interest in our company, Miss Natchios.” She steps away from them, continues, “And I must say, considering what I’ve heard about you, you seem much more _disciplined_ than I anticipated.”

And even more of a dumbass than Elektra had figured, bursting in and wrecking her careful plans of bugging the place. She steps closer to Rand and whispers, “You couldn’t have saved this for a later time?”

“You’re making _deals_ with them,” hisses Rand.

“I was trying to get information,” whispers Elektra. Out loud, she says, “A year can change things. Who _are_ you, again?”

“I’m in charge,” says the woman, which, helpful. She’d already figured that out. “But, do go on, Mr. Rand. What exactly were you going to do to us?”

Rand stands up straight, and says, “Rand Enterprises put together a case to take you down. Extortion, fraud, human trafficking—there’s no end to what we’ll uncover.” He smiles, triumphant, and says, “You can’t hide anymore.”

“Does it look like we’re hiding?” says the woman, coy.

“Well, yes,” says Elektra, deciding to stop playing the innocent fool. “Since we’re cutting through the bullshit now: what else can you call parking a surveillance van outside a grieving family’s apartment? What else can you call all of this?” She sweeps her free hand out to indicate the room, the building, the sharp edges and sleek lines. “A mask. A lovely one, but a mask all the same.”

“And I’m here to rip it off,” says Rand. “No more hiding behind Midland Circle Financial. No more hiding behind corporate shells, or people who don’t know who they’re working for. _No more._ ” He fixes a glare on the woman at the head of the table, and says, with steel in his voice and fury in his eyes, “I am the Immortal Iron Fist, weapon of K’un-Lun. And I’m fulfilling my destiny.”

Elektra says, “I’m just here for answers.”

“Oh, you’re here for more than that, I believe,” says the woman, standing up and smiling, sharp as a knife. “And how is K’un-Lun, these days?”

Rand goes _still_ , shoulders trembling with the force of his anger. Elektra’s grip on her blade grows tighter.

“What do you mean, more than that?” she asks.

“Your destiny, my child,” says the woman, soft and kind. “As the Black Sky.”

“I think the part where I beheaded your attack dog is a rather insurmountable obstacle,” says Elektra, cocking her head and noting just how many people are in the room, and how many of them have hands inside their jackets, ready for a fight. “And I also think I much preferred _Miss Natchios._ ”

“You’re the—” Rand starts, eyes snapping to her.

“I don’t advertise,” says Elektra. “Rand? You’re going to want to get out of here.”

“So soon?” says the woman. “But he hasn’t told me how K’un-Lun is, yet. I’m curious, you see. I’ve heard some very upsetting rumors.”

Rand’s fist clenches, and he snarls, “You’re going to lose _everything._ Just like I did.”

“You haven’t lost everything yet, Mr. Rand,” says the woman.

Just behind them, the safety clicks off. Elektra _moves_ first, her sai flashing out and cutting deep into the secretary’s arm, the gun dropping as Rand grabs hold of the blonde, arm across her throat.

\--

Thirty floors below, Jessica Jones ducks into an elevator, shaking out her hand.

Ten floors below, Luke Cage knocks out a security guard and continues marching upward.

\--

As one, the suits all rise, batons in hand.

“No use using her for protection,” says the woman in gold, her smile cruel, “they will rip right through her to get to you.”

Elektra draws out her other sai. “I had this,” she says to Rand.

“ _Really,_ ” he says.

That’s when the first suit charges. Elektra slips under his grasping hands, stabs him through the chest with a blade, and kicks him off onto another charging suit, takes a moment to scan the room for the woman in gold. Rand, on the other side of the table, breaks someone’s arm, and slams another’s nose down onto the table.

A woman in grey grabs hold of Elektra, attempting to disarm her. Elektra kicks her knee out from under her, hears a sickening crack as she falls with a cry, and moves on to the next enemy.

Something whistles past her head. She looks up, sees men with tranquilizer guns aiming at her and Rand.

“Joining the party?” she asks, cheekily, just before they charge her. She kicks a man over the table for Rand to take care of, slices through another’s throat like butter, rams her knee into someone’s stomach. That last one proves a mistake, because they get their arms around her waist and slam her onto the table, and the next thing she knows both and Rand are pinned down, her sai out of her reach—

The door breaks.

Harlem’s hero walks through.

“You?!” yells Rand, just as Luke Cage picks up a man by his collar and _throws_ him into the wall, hard enough to leave cracks in the drywall. Elektra’s impressed, to say the least, and once Rand’s gotten another suit off of her she kicks out, and takes care of the rest.

“So punching’s okay now?” huffs Rand.

“I’ve heard about you,” Elektra says, stabbing a man through the eye. “I didn’t know you’d gotten out.”

“Punching is complicated,” says Cage. He points to her and says, “Stop _stabbing_ people.”

“Excuse me if I’d rather not be _captured_ ,” huffs Elektra, then she doesn’t say much more, ducking in behind Cage and Rand under machine gun fire. “How many guards did you piss off on the way up here?”

“A lot,” says Cage.

\--

The elevator dings.

Jessica steps out, just in time to see a man get thrown through a wall.

“The fuck?” she says.

Luke Cage steps through the hole in the wall, followed by a guy in a suit and a woman in a red, red dress, wielding _literal actual sai._

“Luke?” says Jessica.

“Jessica?” says Luke.

“You two know each other?” says the woman in red. Holy shit, there’s blood spatter on her face. Holy _shit._

“Yeah, long story,” says Luke.

“You know these two?” says Jessica.

“Danny Rand,” says the guy in the suit, which, huh, that sounds slightly familiar. Probably. Jessica’s not too sure, she doesn’t keep up with the news. “He. Sort of punched me.”

“You punched first,” says Luke, with the air of having argued this before. Jesus fuck, what kind of bullshit has she and Luke found themselves in? “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’m on a case,” says Jessica.

The woman in red spins one of her sai idly in her hands, which is seriously freaky and also reminds Jessica of someone, she doesn’t know who. She looks around and says, “We need to get out of here. There’s going to be more of them headed our way—”

“Oh, shit,” says Jessica.

Heavy footfalls echo around the hallway, and a man in red and black steps out, a mask covering the lower half of his face. He’s oddly out of place, against the white walls and white lights, and he twirls a sword in his hand the same way the woman in red spun her blade.

“Who’s _that_?” says Luke.

“Bad news,” says Jessica.

“Their _dog_ ,” spits Danny.

“Time to go!” says the woman in red, turning on her heel just as a swarm of people in suits, armed with batons and swords, step into the hallway as well. She shakes her head and makes a face. “Or not, I guess.”

“ _No stabbing_ ,” says Luke. “You don’t know who’s waiting for these people.”

“Death,” says the woman in red. “That’s what’s waiting.”

“Hey, lady,” says Jessica. “We get it, you’re emo. Tone it down.”

\--

The Hand’s attack dog punches harder than she thought he would.

Elektra bites back a curse, tries to slash across, but he steps back, almost like he’s dancing away from her blows. She tries to slash down on his neck, but he blocks her swing as if he’s expecting her blow despite not even looking, then tries to stab _her_.

She sidesteps, and gets a spinning kick to the head for her troubles. _Fucker,_ she thinks, and swings once more.

He blocks, and then throws her through the glass. She lets that curse go, and rolls away from the tip of his sword aimed at her face.

He fights like a boxer. He fights like he can anticipate her every blow, somehow, turns aside every thrust and parries every stab. She hasn’t been in a fight like this in _months_ , where her opponent can match her blow for blow, and if she’s being honest here, she’s sorely missed it. Punching muggers is good, but fighting someone who knows what they’re doing? Rare, these days, and Elektra’s almost sorry she’ll have to kill him.

She hasn’t fought anyone like this since—

She pushes the thought away. She jumps onto the table to parry off one blow, and then jumps as the Hand’s attack dog follows her on, and kicks the table out from underneath him.

He jumps off, backflipping off the table with a deadly grace, then lands on his feet. His eyes don’t tick up to meet hers.

The sword separates into _two_ swords, and Elektra catches one blade with her sai, turns it aside—

He kicks her into the bookcase. The wood cracks under her weight, and she swears—it’s going to bruise, tomorrow. She struggles to her feet, and turns the whirling swords aside to rip the mask off his face, just as he throws her into the bookcase once more.

She looks up.

“Matthew?” she whispers.

Matthew cocks his head to the side, the same way he used to when he heard something and was trying to focus on it. He breathes out, then swings a sword down towards her head, too fast for her to block with her sai in time.

But not too fast for a glowing fist to collide with the sword, it seems. Matthew—The thing that _used_ to be Matthew Murdock, that used to be the man she loved, is knocked back from the force of it, the sword shattering on impact with the Iron Fist, and Elektra watches, stunned, as he falls through a wall.

Her heart hammers against her ribcage, her breath comes ragged and shaky. It hadn’t been enough for the Hand to kill him, had it? They’d had to bring him back. Or—they’d had to revive his body, anyway. There’s nothing of Matthew _left_ , she realizes this with an awful clarity that ties her stomach into knots. Matthew would never kill someone, would never have swung a sword down towards her head with no hesitation.

Matthew had been a good man. Whatever is left—she cannot let it profane his memory like this. She’ll have to put it out of its misery, and soon.

“Come on,” says Rand, reaching out his hand. She takes hold of it, lets him pull her up. “We have to go.”

She looks at the hole in the wall, and nods. “Let’s,” she says, and the two of them depart for the elevator. The Hand’s goons litter the hallway, and she absently kicks one of them, beginning to stir, in the head. She hopes it hurts.


	3. what came before this (i can't remember)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is how it felt like, those first few hours:_
> 
> _You wake up bloody. You wake up alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Camille Rankine's "[Forecast](https://m.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/forecast-0)".

His skin is a map of raised, rough scars. Sometimes he finds himself in his little room, hands cataloging every one of them as if he is an undiscovered country, his fingers explorers. Here, a healed stab wound, there, a shallow cut scabbing over, and here are three rough patches of skin on his torso.

He asks Alexandra, once, about them.

“These,” she says, stepping closer with a sword in one hand, “are but the flaws of your vessel.” She rests a hand on his shoulder, and he smells blood and bone, underneath her jasmine perfume and the fading scent of the hospital. He can’t hear her heartbeat. He can’t hear his, either. “Would that I could take them, and this blindness he left behind, away,” she murmurs, soft and sad, “so you could serve life to your fullest potential.”

He swallows. “The Black Sky,” he says, quiet. “She said something. She knew me.”

“She knew the man to whom this body used to belong to,” says Alexandra, gently correcting. Cold steel rests against his other shoulder, just short of his neck. “He was a foolish man, who failed in all he set out to do. But you—I have high hopes for you, my hound.”

Her free hand goes to the nape of his neck, and he bows his head. A moment later, she does too, their foreheads bumping lightly against each other, a parody of familial affection. “I trust you won’t fail in your duty,” says Alexandra.

( _Matthew?_ )

“I won’t,” he says.

\--

The Hand serves life itself, he’s told. No offering is too great, for such a demanding lord, or at least that’s what Alexandra tells him.

He doesn’t tell her that he can smell death on her, the sterile, chemical scent of the hospital clinging to her skin. He’s sure she knows, anyway—more than once a whispered conversation between the Hand’s foot soldiers stopped while he was still in the other room, _shut up, he’ll hear you, he’ll smell you, he’ll know._

The Hand serves life itself.

So the question he finds himself asking is: why bring so much death, then? But he doesn’t say it, not out loud, not even when Alexandra brings him to a rooftop, not even when the floor shakes underneath him and he grabs hold of the railing, hears screams and smells blood and fear in the air.

The city falls apart underneath him, for one long awful minute. When the shaking ends, he falls to his knees.

Alexandra’s skirt rustles as she kneels down next to him. Her fingers, slender and calloused from holding a pen, tilt his head up, gentle and careful as if holding something precious from her collection.

“It’s just a city,” she says, sweet and maternal. “It will fall, like all the others have. You’ll get used to the feeling, in time.”

 _They were screaming,_ he doesn’t tell her. _They were terrified, they were scared, they died screaming, if you serve life then what is all this death for, why must so many people die, why—_

“It’s just a city,” Alexandra stresses.

\--

The Black Sky is a woman who smells like blood and jasmine, steel and orchids.

She says, “Matthew?”

(Silky hair in his fingers, a soft laugh, her heartbeat fluttering under him, _get me back_ —)

\--

In retrospect? Of course he would protect her.

In retrospect? Of course he would protect his city, somehow, in any way he could.

\--

There is an office building in the midst of Hell’s Kitchen, sitting on a street corner, that feels familiar. His feet take him over a path he can’t remember, muscle memory guiding the way even as he tries to recall just what it is about this route that keeps bugging him.

He steps onto an office building, and crouches low, cocks his head to the side, listening as close as he can. Downstairs, he can hear the tinny strains of a radio, the whirring of old laptops, the chatter of different voices about the weather, the government, the bills, everything.

He breathes in, smells shit and sewage and perfume and food—he smells cheese and preservatives, and strawberry rhubarb. Unbidden, a forgotten voice cheers in the back of his head, _strawberry rhubarb! you will be mine._

He finds a way down. The building has rooftop access, yes, but he’s not certain who’ll be coming upstairs or not, and it’s—it’s important that he stays out of sight.

One of the windows is gone when he gets there—the scent of cardboard, drying after a hard rain, gives away the easiest window to break into. So that’s where he breaks in, kicking the flimsy cardboard in and quietly setting foot inside.

No one’s here. He can’t hear any heartbeats nearby, and rattling the doorknob reveals that it’s locked. He’s glad of that much, it means no one’s going to walk in on him.

The office is familiar, is the thing. From the layout to the dying houseplant to the lingering scents of junk food and pie and perfume and alcohol in the air to the receptionist’s desk’s texture underneath his fingers, everything about it drags up another scrap of memory. The ones that must’ve belonged to—

He should go back. Alexandra must be worried, by now.

His fingers trace over a picture frame on the desk. Over a stack of papers, the ink rubbing off slightly against his skin. Over a book and its bookmark, sticking out between the pages.

He takes the bookmark, feels raised bumps against his fingertips. Braille—it reads, _Rest in Peace, Matthew Michael Murdock._

( _Stay with me, Matthew, stay, stay, stay—_ )

He turns. There’s something off about the layout here, he thinks, but it takes him a moment to realize even when he bumps up against it—someone moved a couch in, one that smells like bleach and, faintly, dried blood. The pillows on it are soft, velvety, meant for sitting on. There’s dog hair on one of them, he thinks.

He lies down on the couch, curls up, cheek resting against a pillow.

For the first time in a long, long while, he sleeps.

\--

This is how it felt like, those first few hours:

You wake up bloody. You wake up alone.

You wake up trapped, drowning in blood, and you grasp for something—light, a hand, anything so you can pull yourself out of this hell. Because this must be hell, you can’t see anything but darkness and can’t taste anything but copper and ashes and bone.

You try to breathe. It’s—not a good idea, to say the least, and you grasp blindly about for something to hold on to.

You find it—a gap in the stone.

Stone?

You don’t—

It’s heavy against your fingers, but you grit your teeth and _lift_ , as hard as you can.

The stone falls to the ground with a loud crash. _Too_ loud—the sound rattles around in your head, even as you sit up straight with a panicked cry, a gasp for air.

All at once, everything hits you—the smell of rot, hidden underneath lavender and jasmine, the whisper of steel against fabric, the hitch of breath in three different throats, the rustle of fabric against skin, the sound of someone’s ragged breathing, the vague but fiery shapes against the darkness—

You fall out of—wherever you were. You have to get out of here. You have to—This isn’t where you’re supposed to be, you shouldn’t be here, _why are you here_ —

“It’s all right,” comes a woman’s voice, in the darkness. She steps forward, and the sound of her footsteps on the stone floor is as loud as a scream. You inch away and slip on the blood, and you can’t—something is wrong with her, you can’t _hear_ —

“It’s all right,” she says.

You whimper. The sound of it is so loud in your ears, you can hear every rustle of fabric, every breath, smell the sweat and blood and _rot_ under the jasmine and lavender.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, taking another step. Your back hits the thing you were in, before. Something sloshes, spills over the side of it, and you smell blood. “You’re safe now. You’re ours.”

You bare your teeth and snarl at her.

Steel slides against fabric.

“Stand down,” the woman snaps to her men. To you, she bends down, and fabric slides off her shoulders, winds around her hand. “It’s all right,” she says. “You were—unexpected, but you will be the path to what we seek. Come, now. You’re home.”

This isn’t home. You know that much. Home is—

Home is—

You can’t remember.

You can’t _remember._

A growl rips from your throat, and you try to make a grab for her, hands like claws, but your legs still feel too heavy and she steps to the side easily.

You swipe at her again, and her block is almost lazy. You snarl at her, try again, but she grabs your arm this time and suddenly you can’t break her grip, bruising your arms and keeping them trapped behind your back. All you can smell is lavender and jasmine and blood.

“Shh,” she murmurs, even as you struggle against her. “Shh. It’s all right, it’s all right. _Shh._ ”

Eventually you stop, too exhausted to keep fighting. Eventually they clean you up, and give you clothes, and press a sword into your hand and tell you _fight._

Eventually you get used to the smell of rot.

\--

He wakes to the sound of a woman’s heartbeat, rabbit-fast and fearful, and a can being shaken up.

“ _Who the fuck are you,_ ” she snarls, and that’s all the warning he gets before he has to duck a spray of chemicals directly to his face. Even when he manages to avoid it, it still smells _awful_ , and he gags and almost retches on her. “Who are you and _why do you look like Matt_?!”

Oh.

“Oh,” he says. “I knew you. Didn’t I?”

“The hell?” says the woman. She smells like citrus, old paper, ink. “Oh my god. No. _No._ ”

He holds his hands up, to show her that he doesn’t have any weapons on him. He does, but his swords are leaning on the side of the couch, and after a moment he drops a dagger at her feet as well, tries not to feel exposed and vulnerable.

“Matt?” she whispers.

He tests the name in his head. _Matthew Michael Murdock. Matthew. Matt._ “Yes,” he says. “That’s—who I was, right?” The bookmark feels heavy in his pocket. _Rest in Peace._

If he could laugh, he would.

She bends down, a hand tentatively going to his cheek, fingers brushing over the stubble. There’s a half-healed paper cut on her finger, callouses from holding a pen, and he leans into her touch. Breathes in, then out, focuses on the steady beat of her pulse.

“What happened to you?” she asks, soft and sad. “How are you not dead?”

He hadn’t asked. All he can do is shake his head, and his hand reaches up to touch her wrist, gentle and tentative. “The Hand brought me back,” he says, and she goes still. “I don’t know how, they wouldn’t say. But I don’t—I can’t be theirs anymore.”

“Back up,” she says, confused, trying to understand, “you’ve been with the Hand?”

“Since they brought me back,” he says. “But I’m not staying there. They have something big planned, and whatever it is, it’s going to level this city, and I _can’t_ let that happen.”

“Oh,” she says. “Shit. Okay, wait here—I’m going to call someone, he’ll be able to help better than I can.” She pauses, then adds, “Legally speaking.”

“You _can’t_ —”

“I can and I will,” she says. “Matt, this, what you’re talking about—you can’t handle this alone. The Hand’s too big for one man to take down alone, but if you get help then we have a _chance_.” She clasps his hand in hers, and pleads, “Let me get some help, and we can work something out.”

He hesitates, pulls his hand away. “I can’t risk more people getting hurt because of me,” he says. “I’m already risking it, just being here.”

“I’m not asking you to leave, am I?” she says. “I know. I _know_. They kidnapped me once before, but if we can somehow bring them down—it’s worth the risk. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I can’t risk _you_ ,” he says. “Or anyone else. You don’t—You don’t understand, the Hand is ruthless, they won’t just go after you—”

“They’ll go after everyone I love first,” she says. “You don’t—You really don’t remember? They already did.” She moves closer and leans down, rests her forehead against his, her hand dropping from his cheek to the back of his neck. “They took _you_ ,” she says, grieving and angry.

He swallows the lump that’s grown in his throat. Citrus, old paper, ink, and now he hears the steel underneath her skin, her heartbeat, steady and calmer now than before. “You loved me?” he asks.

“I did,” she says. “God, Matt, I did. We both did.”

“We?”

“Me and Foggy,” she clarifies. “He was—is— _was_ your best friend. You guys fought, and you weren’t speaking to each other when you died, and he’s been beating himself up over that ever since.”

What had they been fighting over? He can’t remember, now. Something twinges in the hollowed space in his chest where his heart must be—regret, he thinks, that when he died he left this unfinished, left this thread hanging.

“Matt,” she says, “I’ll call him, all right? Then I’ll go get you a drink. Are you going to stay here, if I leave to steal some milk off somebody?”

He shouldn’t. He should just leave, they’ll be safer that way, better off without him.

“You’re safe here, Matt,” she says, “you’re safe with us,” and her voice rings with truth, with conviction. Alexandra had never sounded like this, talking to him—assured, yes, arrogantly so, but this woman is different. She isn’t just being reassuring, she really, truly believes it, is determined to make it true, somehow.

“I’ll stay,” he says, and finds that he isn’t lying at all.


	4. a rumor of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Here’s a joke:_
> 
> _A man with unbreakable skin, a kid with a glowing fist, a surly PI with super-strength, and a businesswoman with two sai hole up in a restaurant on the edge of town._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Maya Angelou's "[Awaking in New York](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48988/awaking-in-new-york)".

“We need to hide,” says Luke, once all four of them have spilled out of the building.

“You guys need to tell me what the hell is going on here,” says Jessica. “Because let me tell you, I didn’t expect the karate welcome wagon.”

“That’s because none of you know the concept of subtlety,” says Elektra, stashing her sai inside her bag. The blood from their meeting at Midland Circle doesn’t stand out against her red dress, which is a small mercy.

Sweet Christmas, when did that become a small mercy?

“And _you’re_ subtle?” says Danny.

“Far more than you,” Elektra shoots back.

Luke sighs. Just a few days since he got out of prison and already he keeps throwing glances over his shoulder like someone might be following them. All he’d wanted to do was to _help_ someone, help a grieving mother get some justice for her sons, and now here he is walking fast with a kid with a glowing fist, a woman who stabs people’s eyes out, and—Jessica.

He glances at Jessica, catches her looking at him too. She looks away.

After a moment, he does too.

“I know a place,” says Elektra, suddenly. Her pace speeds up until she’s ahead of them, and they have to follow her down a winding, twisting path through dark alleyways and so-called “shortcuts” until they stop near a restaurant.

 _The Royal Dragon,_ reads the neon signage on top.

“Oh, great,” Jessica mutters beside him. “A Chinese restaurant.”

“They serve some splendid pork dishes,” says Elektra.

“They’re closed,” says Luke, nodding to the last customers happily stumbling away from the doors. “We need a better place to hide.”

“This is the best place,” says Elektra. “Besides, I’m famished. What about the rest of you?”

Luke’s stomach rumbles, just then. Right. Dinner had been a long time ago, and had consisted of some reheated leftovers. “Point,” he concedes.

“They have shrimp, I bet,” says Danny, dreamily. Then he snaps back to reality and says, “But are they going to let us in? It’s closing time.”

“They will,” says Elektra, casually, just before she steps closer to Jessica. Luke shifts closer. “I need your scarf.”

“ _Why_ ,” says Jessica, just as Elektra whips her scarf off her neck, ties it around the lower part of her face as if to hide her identity. “What— _What the hell_?”

“Now they’ll let us in,” Elektra says.

\--

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” whispers the owner, eyes growing wide, and Elektra resists the urge to snap at him, because that’s not what someone trying to protect people does.

“The what,” says Rand, behind her, flatly.

There’s the sound of a big hand hitting a forehead, and Luke mutters softly, “Sweet Christmas.”

“Fuck,” says Jessica, much more succinctly.

“Can we come in?” says Elektra, her manners as polished as her swords. More polished, right now. “We’re in some trouble.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, good,” Elektra chirps, pushing past the door. “We need to make this place look closed. Do you mind if I hit the lights?”

“No, but—”

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” says Luke, to the restaurant’s owner, as Elektra closes the blinds. “But for your safety, you and your employees might want to stay in the back.”

“Someone needs to stand guard,” says Elektra. “A wooden door won’t do much to stop the Hand.”

“The _what_ ,” says Jessica, irritated.

“They’re evil,” Rand supplies, tapping the restaurant’s owner on the shoulder. “And, yeah, a guard’s a good idea—”

Jessica, in answer, lifts up a table. The cheap vase falls to the ground, shatters into so many pieces. Elektra pauses in her work to look at Jessica, who’s shoving the table into place against the door. That, she supposes, is one way to keep someone out.

“She is _very_ strong,” says Rand, admiringly.

“ _Wǒ de huāpíng!_ ” the owner cries, aghast, and Rand takes him aside, conversing about replacing the vase and reimbursing any possible damages _and do you have any shrimp here, by any chance, I’ll pay your rent for the next few months._

Elektra makes a mental note to herself: _buy this building._ A restaurant like this with such delicious pork dishes shouldn’t have to pay out through its nose to hang on by the skin of its teeth.

“You speak Chinese?” calls Jessica after Rand.

Rand, the show-off, replies in Chinese.

Elektra says, “He says, _yes, and you’re welcome._ ”

“You too?” says Jessica, scowling at her.

“I traveled quite a lot when I was younger,” says Elektra, with a shrug. “I can speak quite a few languages. Would you like a demonstration?”

“God, no,” says Jessica. “Am I ever going to get my scarf back, by the way? We’ve already seen your face, after all.”

“You have,” says Elektra. She nods to the owner, still talking to Rand, and to the cook and the waiter, talking to Luke. “They haven’t, and I need to keep them thinking Elektra Natchios and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen are separate. That way, I don’t have to contend with a very messy legal system.”

“Yeah, I noticed you’re not great at that part,” says Jessica.

Elektra leans against the windows, the plastic blinds digging into her back. “Growing pains,” she says, thinking of her first month on the job, of having to consciously keep herself from impaling someone who’d begged her, _please don’t kill me I didn’t know it was loaded I didn’t know I didn’t_ —

“Three people dead is _growing pains_?” Jessica asks.

“Before this,” says Elektra, “I didn’t have to worry about keeping people _alive_.”

Jessica stares at her for a long moment, and Elektra wonders, suddenly, how much a private investigator like her can discern just by looking at someone. If the Black Sky is a part of it, somehow.

“Funny,” says Jessica, “last I checked, business didn’t end in bodies.”

“Depends on the kind of business we’re talking about,” says Elektra, pulling the scarf up a little. This is what she hates about having to borrow from people—the scarf is itchy against her skin, not like her own mask. “I’ll check on the back door. No one here wants any more surprises, I’m sure.”

\--

“Back door’s clear!” the Black Sky, former destined weapon of the Hand and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, announces as she walks back into the restaurant proper. She’s pretty cheery for someone who’s running around in a bloodstained dress, though Danny supposes that’s why she wore red. “Everything’s locked, we’re safe for the moment.”

 _For the moment._ Danny doesn’t miss the emphasis she places on the words, like she’s not betting on how long it’ll last. Truth be told, he isn’t either.

But he doesn’t tell the Royal Dragon’s owner that. Instead he promises to order four of everything on the menu, maybe five considering his appetite.

The man sighs, at last, and mutters a curse in Mandarin. “All right,” he says, in English. “You can stay. I owe the Devil a debt, anyway.”

Danny looks briefly at Elektra, now talking with Luke and the PI in the leather jacket. It’s hard to believe even now—the Black Sky, a weapon for good. A stabby weapon for good, but still.

He wonders what happened to the _first_ Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, if Elektra had anything to do with it. If she might have—

“Well?” says the owner.

“We’ll take it,” says Danny.

“Remember, the damages are on _you_ ,” says the owner.

“I’ll remember,” Danny promises, and watches the man head to the back, presumably to enjoy the relative safety while it lasts.

Then he turns to the three and says, cheerfully, “He says we can stay!”

“Oh, brilliant,” says Elektra, delighted, tugging the scarf down so he can see her grin. “They serve the best chow mein in the city here, I’ve been _dying_ to try them out again.”

“You’re thinking of food at a time like this?” says Luke. “And what did you do?”

“I gave him my black card and agreed to pay the rent for the next six months,” says Danny. Then he looks at the PI, scowling at them all, and says, “Hi, I’m Danny.”

“Jessica,” she says. “Hey, She-Devil, I need my scarf back.”

“You can have it,” says Elektra, “once we’re out of here.” She pauses, then adds, “I don’t want to get into any more legal trouble than I’m already in.”

“I think the whole _secret vigilante_ thing is grounds for a whole lot of legal trouble,” says Jessica.

“Not if no one finds out,” Elektra replies.

“You can take the scarf off, you know,” says Danny, encouragingly. “Your secret’s safe here, we all already know.”

“You are admirably innocent for an Iron Fist,” says Elektra, carelessly. Danny opens his mouth, and closes it. _Innocent?_ He isn’t—He isn’t so innocent, anymore. How can anyone call him that, after everything, after—

He swallows the lump in his throat, forces a smile.

“A what?” says Jessica.

“An Iron Fist,” Danny explains. “ _The_ Immortal Iron Fist, weapon of K’un-Lun.”

Luke lets out a long sigh. That’s— _fine_ , Danny supposes. He can deal with a little disbelief, considering he doesn’t have any way to prove the sacredness of the title, the duty it confers upon him. The duty that he’d run away from.

His heart twists.

“Are you on lithium?” says Jessica, and his heart twists all the more.

Elektra sighs. “That doesn’t mean anything to either of them, you know,” she says, conversationally.

“But it does to you,” says Danny.

“Somewhat, yes,” she admits.

“You know what that means?” says Luke.

“An entrepreneur, an assassin, a vigilante, and now an expert on whatever the fuck this is,” says Jessica, sardonic. “What’s next? Reality show star? Scarf model?”

“Living weapon, actually,” says Elektra. “I’m not quite clear on the exact nature yet, but as far as I know it’s not a life that I would want.” She lets out a breath, and for the first time since Danny met her the smile seems to slip a little. “The vigilante part’s new, and besides, I—have people I promised to look after.”

“You’re not the only one,” says Luke.

“The organization we just fought is powerful and ancient,” says Elektra. “How do you think they lasted this long? By sparing their enemies and any _potential_ enemies?”

“They have a name, right?” says Jessica. “Any stupidly powerful ancient organization has bound to have some kind of pretentious-ass name.”

“They call themselves the Hand,” says Danny, deciding to slide in before Jessica can get going.

“ _Right_ ,” says Luke. “What are they really called?”

“No, he’s right, that really is what they call themselves,” says Elektra. “Pretentious as hell, I know. Next time they try to kill us I’ll be sure to let them know.”

“You’ve crossed paths with them before,” says Danny, looking to Elektra. She’s stowed her sai away now, and her arms are crossed across her chest, unconsciously defensive. “Not only that, but—you’ve managed to resist them. You’ve managed to resist your destiny.” He hadn’t known it was possible, for a Black Sky to do that.

Elektra smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I decide my own fate,” she says. “And I decided I was tired of being jerked around by destiny. It’s brought me naught but—”

She stops, looks down. There’s a story there, Danny thinks, one of grief and sorrow.

He almost, almost reaches out to take her shoulder. But his hand drops, at the last minute—he’s seen her fight, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t quite appreciate the attempt at comfort. Especially not from him.

He says, instead, “We need to decide our next move.”

“ _Next move_?” Luke demands.

“There is no _we_ ,” says Jessica, “and we’re not making a _next move_. We got into trouble, we fought our way out, let’s call it professional courtesy, end of story.”

“Oh, no, it’s not,” says Elektra. “They’ve seen your faces. They know your names. These people are dangerous—”

“ _So am I,_ ” snarls Jessica, and for a second Danny can see the dragon inside of her—beaten and battered and bruised, but it’s there all the same, that core of molten steel. Hope kindles in his heart—if these people are on his side, then maybe, just maybe, they can win. “Now someone tell me what I need to know about—ugh, _the Hand_ , so I can be on my way.”

“What is that?” Luke demands, and Danny turns to see the chef and the waiter emerging from the back, with plates upon plates of food. “Did you—Sweet Christmas. You _didn’t._ ”

“It was part of the deal,” says Danny, sheepishly, scratching his neck under the weight of Luke’s incredulous stare. “He got me to order four of everything.” He squints, says, hopefully, “Is that shrimp?”

“Is that chow mein?” says Elektra, tugging the scarf back up to cover her face. Strange woman, trying to cover her identity now. “It is! Dibs on all of that, I’m hungry.”

“Why are both of you,” says Luke, “thinking about _food_? We’re not here to eat!”

“There’s something called multitasking,” says Elektra.

“You can have mine,” says Jessica. “I’m not hungry.”

\--

Jessica doesn’t try to get involved in things bigger than herself, as a rule. Sure, it doesn’t always work out for her, but—well, at least she tries to keep things simple and neat. She’s not sure these two fuckers have tried that in their lives.

Elektra reaches over to spear Jessica’s shrimp on a fork. Jessica lets her—she’s not hungry, anyway, and even if she was she wouldn’t be in the mood for Chinese.

“So,” says Elektra, her mouth full, “do we have a plan?”

“There’s still no _we_ ,” says Jessica.

“We’re all eating together,” Danny Rand, Boy Billionaire, points out.

She looks at Luke, who so far seems like the only other person in this shitshow who is just as aware as she is of its status as a shitshow. She’s a little disappointed when she sees him chewing thoughtfully on a slice of chicken.

“But that’s why we’re here,” says Danny, earnestly. “To work out a plan.”

“Correction,” says Elektra, “we’re all only here because it was the best place to hide out and it serves really good food.” She swallows, wipes off her mouth with a tissue, which is a small courtesy. At least she didn’t do it with Jessica’s scarf. “The _plan_ , we still need to work out, and I’m all ears if anyone’s got something.”

“Well, the legal way didn’t work out,” says Danny, with a sigh. “I tried it—see? I even put on a tie!”

“Working from the bottom up didn’t work out, either,” says Luke. “The kid I was keeping an eye out for—” He stops, huffs out a quiet breath. “Well. They’re pretty thorough.” He pauses, then says, “And that guy with the swords. Who was he?”

Ah, yes. The little motherfucker in red with the swords and the ninja-flips. If Jessica never sees him again it’d be too soon, it’s thanks to him that John Raymond’s brains are splattered all over the wall of her apartment, thanks to him that her life has taken a wild left turn into _cheap and vaguely racist kung fu movie_.

Elektra, beside her, has gone still.

“I’m not sure,” says Danny. “I fought him in Cambodia—he’s fast, faster than the other members of the Hand I’ve gone up against.”

“Yeah, I met him too,” says Jessica, propping an elbow up on the table. “He tried to skewer someone in my apartment.” She glances sideways at Elektra, and says, “Seems like you’d get along with him.”

Elektra shakes her head. “He went after your client?” she asks.

“You know him?” says Luke.

Elektra’s eyes dart briefly away from Jessica, and she picks at her food, her fork _tink_ ing against the porcelain. “No,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like a lie. “I’m surprised, that’s all. At this point, the hero of Harlem here is the only one he hasn’t gone after yet.”

“And every hour I thank god for that,” says Luke. “You know how much hoodies cost when you have to buy them every few days?”

“I could help,” says Danny, earnestly.

“I can buy my own hoodies,” says Luke, coolly. “Anyway. Guy with the swords. What do we know?”

“Nothing,” says Jessica. “Zip, zilch, nada.” She glances briefly at Elektra, who’s prodding at a dumpling with her chopstick, a contrast to her earlier appetite. Something’s up with her, Jessica’s sure, and that something involves the guy in red. “Elektra?” she says.

“I told you already,” says Elektra. “I don’t know him. Or it.”

“It?” says Luke, incredulously.

“He looked human to me,” says Danny.

“Trust me, whatever he is, it’s something else,” says Elektra, her tone brooking no argument. She’s lost her smile, too, that frustratingly ever-present grin like she’d thought everything happening around her was a little bit amusing—this is something she’s not going to budge on. Not an inch. “Something that isn’t _human_.”

“Well, whatever he is,” says Luke, “he knew what he was doing.”

“The Hand trains its warriors to be merciless,” says Danny, eyes darting between all three of them. “But this guy’s something else entirely.”

“He moves like a Russian gymnast, I can tell that much,” says Jessica.

“He’s trained by the Hand, of course he does,” says Elektra, and Jessica knows bullshit when she hears it. She’s about to say so when Danny says:

“But we can fight him.”

Jessica turns in her seat and gapes at him. “ _We_? I just want to crack my case. I did _not_ sign up for this ninja bullshit.”

“Neither did I,” says Luke. “I came to Midland Circle to help _one_ family, the best way I could. Ancient organizations are—a little outside my worldview.”

“So expand it,” says Elektra.

“We all came to Midland Circle for different reasons,” says Danny, leaning forward. God, he’s so earnest, it almost breaks Jessica’s shriveled husk of a heart. “But I think—we came together for a reason. Because of fate. I mean, come on, look at us!”

Jessica says, “We’re a bunch of people who got thrown together ‘cause we were working the same case and had to fight our way out of the mess it put us in. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Beyond that,” says Danny. “Don’t you feel it? I mean—” He waves a hand at Luke, at Elektra, at Jessica herself. “Bulletproof, Black Sky, and. Whatever it is you are.”

“Classy,” says Jessica.

“I think I’m disqualified as the Black Sky on the grounds of very strenuously objecting,” says Elektra. “All right—the Hand. We need to take them down.”

“Who said anything about taking them down?” says Jessica. “We need to get them off our backs. Ideally in a way that doesn’t incriminate us.”

“Incriminate us, what are you talking about—” starts Danny.

“None of us were on police payroll,” says Jessica, steamrolling over Danny’s protests. “What we did back there was aggravated assault, trespassing, and so much vigilante bullshit.”

“Also murder,” says Luke.

“The Hand doesn’t count,” says Elektra. “An evil like that? Needs to be destroyed root and stem.”

“Are you even hearing yourself right now?” says Luke. “You _stabbed_ someone through the _eye_.”

“I stabbed multiple someones through the eye, technically,” says Elektra. “And it doesn’t change the fact that I’m right.”

“She is, though,” says Danny, which, _what the fuck._ “The Hand is dangerous, and we need to destroy it and then salt the earth where they used to be.”

“What the fuck,” says Jessica.

“I know someone we can bring in,” says Luke, glancing at Jessica, “a _cop_ , and a good one at that. We can trust her.”

Which is barely a comfort, because Elektra apparently doesn’t give much of a shit about cops, but still.

“You’re just going to put her in danger,” says Elektra. “Her and everyone else she loves. The Hand doesn’t know anything about mercy—you should know that.”

She punctuates this ominous declaration by reaching over to steal the last dumpling off Luke’s plate. Luke swats her on the knuckles with his chopsticks, says, “Stick to your own plate.”

“You’re no fun,” says Elektra.

\--

Here’s a joke:

A man with unbreakable skin, a kid with a glowing fist, a surly PI with super-strength, and a businesswoman with two sai hole up in a restaurant on the edge of town.

Then a blind man walks in, a sword in one hand and just the one hand because he apparently _lost the other one_ , and says, “This is a shitty excuse for a hideout.”

What’s the punch line?

Elektra doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t even think this is funny.

“ _Stick_ ,” she spits. “You’ve lost a hand.”

“Ellie,” says Stick. “You’ve gone soft.”

Luke holds out a hand before she can charge forward, blocking her way. “Who are you?” he says, evenly.

“I thought you said you locked everything,” Jessica hisses.

“ _I did_ ,” Elektra whispers back. To Stick, she says, “I’ll show you _soft_ —”

“I’m the guy who’s going to help you dumbasses,” says Stick, waving the sword at all four of them, “save New York.”

“Since when do you care about New York?” says Elektra, one hand in her bag, curling around the hilt of her sai.

“Since when did you?” Stick shoots back, sheathing the sword. “Hand out of the bag, Elektra. For now, we’re on the same side.”

“You know this guy?” Rand asks.

“He raised me and trained me to fight his war and then tried to kill me,” says Elektra, taking her hand out of her bag. “Stick? Get out of this restaurant and the city. We don’t need your help.”

“Pretty sure you do,” says Stick, and damn it, he’s right. Stick has the most experience in going up against the Hand, and he’d be an invaluable resource, but she can’t _forget_ how they fought. “You want this city to not crumble like a fortune cookie, right?”

“Considering that we all live here, yes, that’s priority number one,” says Luke. To Elektra, he says, “Is he with them?”

“He’s with another organization,” says Elektra.

“Let me guess, it’s ancient and powerful and has a stupid name,” says Jessica.

“We call ourselves the Chaste,” says Stick, walking towards them easy as you please. He bows to Danny Rand— _bows to him_ , seriously! Elektra’s never seen him do that to anyone who hadn’t earned his respect first, before. “We follow the Iron Fist.”

“These names,” Jessica says, contemplatively, “are going to kill me.”


	5. the bright crumb of steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You love this city?” says Danny._
> 
> _“On the contrary, I hate it,” says Elektra._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Stephen Vincent Benét's "[Metropolitan Nightmare](https://m.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/metropolitan-nightmare)".

Jessica leaves.

Elektra envies her, for that alone—for being able to leave, for having the choice and taking it. She would if she could, if her life wasn’t so tangled up in this war, if it wasn’t for Matt.

“This is big,” Rand says, elbows on the table. “This is bigger than all of us, I can’t understand why she can’t see that.”

“I can,” says Elektra. “She hasn’t been dealing with this all her life. She has the chance to get out while she still can.” She absently steals the last dumpling from Jessica’s plate—after all, it’s not like the woman will miss it. “In fact, I’d encourage Cage to leave too. This isn’t his fight, either.”

“It is now,” says Rand, stubbornly.

“Why?” says Elektra. “Because we teamed up to fight off the Hand one time?”

“After all you’ve been through, Ellie,” says Stick, his voice making her blood boil, “I thought you’d be a little more open-minded.”

“Forgive me, then,” says Elektra, frosty, “if I’m not excited about dragging more people into your war.”

“It’s your war too, Ellie,” says Stick, “and soon enough it’ll be everyone’s.”

“If we don’t stop the Hand,” says Elektra. “And we will.”

“With three people?” says Stick.

“The Avengers turned back an alien invasion with six people,” says Rand. “And the third Iron Fist, Zhang Wu, he fought an army and _won_.”

“Didn’t get to enjoy his victory very long,” says Stick. “He died because an archer got lucky.”

“The odds are against us, fine,” says Rand, “but we’ve got abilities. We can fight them on equal footing.”

“I knew someone who had abilities too,” says Elektra. “He _died_.” She turns to Stick and says, “Why do you think I haven’t killed you yet, old man? I want to take the Hand down.”

“Good to know we’re agreed on that much,” says Stick, just as Luke walks back inside.

Jessica, Elektra notes, is nowhere to be seen.

“This isn’t her fight,” says Luke.

“Sooner or later it’ll be everyone’s fight,” says Stick.

“Not yet,” says Elektra. “Not if I can help it.”

\--

There’s a moment, before things go to hell, when Elektra musters up enough restraint to walk over to Stick, who’s standing at the window. Luke and Rand are forming some kind of bond, and she’ll leave them to their burgeoning friendship—she has other things to worry about.

“And here I thought you hated New York,” says Stick. “Or is this love?” He spits the word like a curse. “You’ve grown soft, Ellie.”

“So you’ve said already,” says Elektra. “Did you know?”

“Ah,” says Stick, understanding. “Matty’s corpse. You ran into him too, didn’t you.”

“At Midland Circle,” says Elektra. “When we were making our getaway.” She glances out the window, sees nothing but empty streets under neon lights. “Did you know?”

Stick shakes his head. “Not until a few hours ago,” he says. Bluntly, he adds: “He’s not _Matt Murdock_. Not anymore. He just happens to wear his body.”

Elektra’s hand curls into a fist, nails digging into her palm. “I know,” she says. “I know Matthew. I _knew_ Matthew, and I know he would never have tried to kill me. He’s too good for that.” He always had been—between the two of them, Matt’s always been the kinder person, the one willing to see even a sliver of good even in the worst of humanity. Even in her.

Stick inclines his head. “Guess I don’t have to talk some sense into you, this time,” he says.

She turns to Stick then, and says, evenly, “I don’t _need_ you trying to talk sense into me, old man. I am _done_ with that—and after this, you’re going to leave the city and never come back, because I am done with you.”

She’s almost a little disappointed, when Stick just shrugs. As if her declaration doesn’t matter. As if he never _cared_ —but then, did he ever care about anything other than his war? She doubts it. This is the same man who sent assassins after her. “Fine with me,” he says. “New York’s a shithole anyway.”

“Do you have any idea how much I pay for my apartment in this city?” she says.

“An _expensive_ shithole,” Stick amends. “Matty’s rubbed off on you.”

Elektra grits her teeth, imagines stabbing Stick through the chest with a sai. She lets the fantasy go, and says instead, “What are they trying to do right now? Do you have any idea?”

Stick shakes his head. “Nothing concrete,” he says. “My guess is, your rebellious phase moved up whatever plans they had.”

“This is not a _rebellious phase_ ,” says Elektra, offended.

“Not how the Hand seems to see it,” says Stick, a sour note in his tone.

“The Hand,” says Elektra, levelly, “killed Matthew. They can’t sell anything to me now, after that.” They might’ve been able to, once, but she still remembers Matt’s weight in her arms, his blood on her hands.

 _This is what we get,_ he had said, rueful and sad, _isn’t it? For trying to make it work._

She shuts her eyes against the hot sting of tears.

_I’m so sorry, sweetheart._

“Good to know you’ve got your priorities straight, this time,” says Stick. Elektra opens her eyes, sees him cocking his head towards the outside world, the flickering lights playing over the deserted streets. “But remember—we need to _work together_ if we’re gonna make it out of this.”

“I remember,” says Elektra. “I’m willing. For now.” She glances at the stump of his hand, wrapped in dirty, bloodstained bandages. She hopes it gets infected. “Did you get that treated?” she asks.

“‘Course,” says Stick.

“Damn,” says Elektra. She glances out the window, and says, “When you hear something—”

“I’ll let you know,” says Stick.

“Good,” says Elektra, and goes to warn the few civilians in the building to go, her gut churning with dread.

\--

“So,” chirps Elektra, sliding into a chair and stealing a dumpling off Danny’s plate, “people should really hide out here more often. The food is _amazing_ , it’s a shame the place tends to hang on by the skin of its teeth half the time.”

“Yeah, their duck’s pretty great,” says Danny, enthusiastic.

Luke misses Jessica already—this is so far beyond what he signed up for that it’s not even funny, and he kind of envies Jessica for taking the opportunity to leave when she could. Still, he can’t forget Cole’s plea, can’t forget how Cole’s mother broke down sobbing in his arms, _all my babies is gone_.

And here are Danny and Elektra, stealing food and talking about immortality and ninjas with mouths full of dumplings.

He sighs.

“I kind of like their pork better,” he ventures.

“Right?” says Elektra. “I’ve had the exact same pork dish in Paris and believe me when I say, this diner here? Cooks better than a five-star restaurant with a waiting list longer than this street.” She huffs out a laugh, says, “Every time I want to leave this city, there’s another reason for me to stay.”

“What was the first?” says Luke.

Elektra’s smile melts into something softer, sadder. “Love,” she says, simply.

“You love this city?” says Danny.

“On the contrary, I hate it,” says Elektra. She twirls a chopstick idly around her fingers. “It smells like shit, and if you’re walking on the sidewalk and minding your own business, there’s always going to be someone demanding that you walk faster.”

Luke huffs out a laugh. “Not to mention all the gentrification going on,” he says.

“And the crime,” she says.

“And the pollution.”

“ _And_ the pigeon shit.”

“I’m missing something here,” says Danny.

“Shush, we’re dissing New York here,” says Elektra. “It’s terrible, there’s so much crime here that I honestly don’t know why anyone would willingly choose to live here.”

“You _live here_ ,” says Danny. “You protect this city! And you have for a while, I’ve heard all about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Yeah, about that,” says Luke, “when I last checked, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was a guy who _really_ leaned into the theme.”

Elektra props her chin up with her hand, dark eyes watching Luke like a hawk. Given all she’s told them tonight, he’s not surprised, but being watched like he just might pose a threat still puts him on edge.

“He was,” she says, after a moment.

“What happened?” asks Danny.

Elektra smiles again, but this time there’s something brittle to it. “What usually happens to martyrs,” she says. “He died, because—well, suffice it to say, I was involved in getting him into that situation.” She looks down, idly pushes a dumpling around on her plate. “I took up his mantle, afterwards, and I’ve been doing it ever since.”

Then she pops the dumpling into her mouth and says, after swallowing, “Anyway, enough about that. About earlier—I can tell you some things about the Chaste and the Hand. I can’t guarantee it’ll be _accurate_ , considering it’s been a while and the Chaste are all dead, but if you want information then,” she gestures to herself, with a grin, “I’m a much better source than an old man with an agenda.”

Luke lets out a long, slow breath. There’s something more behind the story than what she’s telling him, he’s sure, something to do with what she had snapped at Danny before.

 _Just imagine holding someone you love in your arms and not being able to do anything to keep them from dying,_ she’d snarled, _and knowing, for the rest of your life, that you only made things worse by getting them involved._ How close had she been to Daredevil, he wonders.

“You’re sure?” says Danny. Kid’s got some self-preservation after all.

“I’m sure,” says Elektra. She shrugs. “But first: you’ve seen the Iron Fist in action twice?”

Luke snorts out a laugh. “First time was on the side of my face,” he says.

“First time that was the first punch that actually did anything,” says Danny. “You’re seriously tough. I do _not_ want to go up against you again.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” says Luke. “Like I said, I liked your fist better on my side of the fight.” He glances at Elektra and adds, “Don’t. _Don’t._ ”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says, innocently, reaching over for the dumpling Danny had helpfully given him before she’d sauntered on over. “In fact, I was just going to take this last dumpling—”

“It’s mine,” says Luke, shortly, yanking the plate away from Elektra’s hand. “Quit stealing off other people’s plates, woman.”

“If you’re not going to eat it, I don’t see why it should go to waste,” Elektra shoots back.

“Just because I’m not eating it right now doesn’t mean I don’t have plans—”

“If you three are done there,” says the old man at the window, the one she’d called Stick, his voice ringing out with the same kind of authority that Luke remembers from old Ms. Greene, back in Georgia, “we’ve got company.”

\--

“How’d they find us?” says Luke, looking through the blinds at an unmarked grey van parked just outside the restaurant. Great. And he’d been planning on enjoying that last dumpling.

“Was just a matter of time,” says Stick.

“The civilians?” says Danny, urgently.

“They’re far away from here,” says Elektra.

“What do you think’s inside?” Luke asks.

Elektra shrugs, peers out the blinds as well. “Goons with guns,” she says. “That’s usually how this works, I’ve found.”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” says Luke, sourly. “How about the man with the swords?”

“Doubt it,” Elektra says, absently, “this wouldn’t be his style.”

“How would you know?”

Elektra’s quiet for a second, her eyes trained on the van. For a woman with a predilection for stealing people’s food off their plates, she can be as still and silent as stone when she needs to be. “I just do,” she says.

Stick sniffs the air. Then he says, “Well, I’ll be god-damned.”

“What?” says Danny, urgently, before he pauses and says, “Perfume?”

“Fuck,” says Elektra, succinctly.

Luke turns first, sees the woman in white sitting at _his chair_ wiping her refined fingers off on a tissue, and says, “All right, who’re you?”

“This wouldn’t be my first choice for a hideout,” says the woman, seemingly unperturbed, “but I am a sucker for fortune cookies. And they make great dumplings here.”

“You _goddamn bitch_ ,” snarls Elektra, charging forward. Luke grabs hold of her arm to keep her back, and sighs when she kicks angrily but ineffectually at his knee. “Let go!”

“What are you doing here?” snaps Danny.

“ _Alexandra,_ ” says Stick, voice full of loathing.

“Hello, Stick,” says Alexandra, apparently the leader of the Hand. She doesn’t look like much, but the smug smile on her face makes Luke think of Cottonmouth, somehow. Of Kilgrave, before him. “I thought it would be a good idea if we all talked this over. Like adults.”

Yep. Definitely Kilgrave.

“What do you want?” says Stick.

“ _Let me go,_ ” Elektra hisses, struggling in his grip.

“I do that, you’ll kill her,” Luke says. “And you do that, who’s to say the goons outside won’t come down on us hard? Now, I know I can survive most kinds of bullets, but you and Danny and the old man don’t have that luxury. So _calm down_ , so we can all make it through tonight.”

Elektra glares up at him, then breathes out, her breath hissing through her teeth. “Fine,” she says.

He lets go, and she steps away from him, practically vibrating with fury.

“You’ve become resourceful in your old age,” says Alexandra, walking closer to Stick with a smile on her face. “It’s almost commendable, really, considering how we met.”

“What have you become in yours?” Stick shoots back.

“Determined,” says Alexandra, turning away from him and smiling, kindly and maternal, at Elektra and Danny. Luke’s gut churns at the sight of her smile, her empty eyes. “Mr. Rand, Ms. Natchios—your exit from our meeting was so abrupt, I didn’t get the opportunity to speak with you as much as I wanted to.”

“And I didn’t get the opportunity to stab you in the throat,” says Elektra. “Be glad I’m not doing it now either.”

“You tried to have us _killed_ ,” snarls Danny.

Alexandra places a hand over her heart, as if hurt. “Not _you_ ,” she says. “The two of you are valuable, to me and my organization.” She nods briefly to Luke, and says, “I did try to have the others killed, though. And I see you’re missing one.”

“She’s not here,” says Elektra. “It’s not her fight.”

“It seemed like it was,” says Alexandra, placing a maternal hand on Elektra’s shoulder. The woman goes completely still, rage flickering in her eyes when they dart to meet Luke’s.

Luke mouths _later, later._

Elektra nods, slightly, and pulls roughly away from Alexandra’s hand.

“Oh, my child,” sighs Alexandra, sadly.

“I am _not_ your child,” snarls Elektra.

“So you might think,” says Alexandra, turning to Danny. “We have only the utmost respect for the Iron Fist, Mr. Rand,” she says, and Luke can’t help but raise an eyebrow. _Utmost respect,_ yeah, right. Who’d kidnap someone they utterly respected? “It is an honor, a blessing beyond blessings, to bear such great power.”

“Save your compliments,” says Danny. “Save your _lies_ for someone who’ll believe them. I am the enemy of the Hand, and I’d rather die than be respected by you.”

“So spirited,” says Alexandra, patting him on the shoulder.

“Cut the shit, Alexandra,” says Stick. “What. Do. You. Want?”

Alexandra turns to look at him, a wry, indulgent twist to her smile. There’s something cold in her eyes, in the way they flick over everyone not Elektra or Danny as if she’s judged them unimportant.

Fine. Let her think of Luke as unimportant, then. He’s pretty good at surprising people.

“What I’ve always wanted,” says Alexandra. “To bring light where there is darkness. To bring life where there is death.”

“Bullshit,” says Elektra.

The first word on Luke’s tongue is _bullshit, lady,_ the same as Elektra, but he reins that first instinct in. Instead, he says, evenly, “For someone who wants to bring life, you sure kill a lot of people.”

Alexandra’s scrutinizing gaze swings to him. She steps closer, looking him up and down as if trying to categorize a new species. Luke grits his teeth and stands his ground, crossing his arms and staring her down, and tries not to think of Seagate.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” she says.

Luke glances at Elektra, whose hand’s snuck back into her bag. “I’d like to keep it that way,” he says.

“A wise decision,” says Alexandra, stepping away as if satisfied. She turns to the rest of them and says, “I can see you’ve formed a bond here. I promise you it won’t last.”

She’s very smug. It’s annoying.

“The more connections you have, the easier it will be to break you.”

Seriously, it’s getting annoying. Luke glances reflexively away from her, searching for Jessica, before he remembers—she left. It aches, surprisingly, to remember that, even if he knows it’s probably for the best. This isn’t her fight, after all. She’ll be safer far away from it.

—now Alexandra’s moved on to trying to tempt Elektra and Danny, placing her hands on their shoulders like an indulgent grandmother. “There are alternatives,” she says, kindly, “and we can work together. I might even let them go free.”

“Kid,” says Stick, warningly, “you walk with her, I’ll take you down myself.”

“Shut up, Stick,” says Elektra. To Alexandra, she says, “After what you did? You’re lucky I haven’t _run you through_ with a _fork_.”

Danny glances, briefly, at Luke. _What do I do?_

Luke shakes his head. _Say no._

Danny takes Alexandra’s hand off, frosty but polite. Elektra smacks it off her shoulder, glaring at the woman in undisguised hatred.

Alexandra sighs.

“They’re just like you, old man,” she says, sadly. “The only language they know is violence.” She snaps her fingers, and the front door all but _explodes_ as if the table Jessica shoved in front of it was never there.

The man with the swords steps into view. Luke steps closer to Danny, whose fist starts glowing as he settles into a fighting stance.

Elektra snaps, whips her sai out and swings at Alexandra. The woman ducks, disarms Elektra with a quick and terrifying efficiency.

“Now, now, my child,” she says, scolding, “I just wanted to _talk_.”

“ _Too fucking late,_ ” Elektra spits, and she slams her heel down on Alexandra’s foot. It’s the first time Luke’s seen the woman in white caught off her guard, and she stumbles back with a quiet curse in a language he doesn’t know.

“Plan not going well?” says Stick. Luke could swear he sounds amused, the old bastard.

“Hound,” says Alexandra, eyes flicking towards the man in red and black. He tilts his head in her direction, but his eyes don’t seem to track her. “Go on. Serve life itself.”

The man twirls the swords in his hands, almost like he’s showing off. Then he steps forward, and Luke tenses, ready to step in front and take the brunt of the blows if needed. Between the four of them, he knows he’s the only one who can stand up to a sharp weapon like a sword.

Then something skids, and a moment later an SUV crashes through the window and into the man, knocking him out of the way. The man groans, disoriented.

Jessica steps through the broken glass, and stands beside Luke.

“Anyone missed me?” she says.


	6. the picture is burned at the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Can you at least give me a hint as to what I’ll find when I get there?”_
> 
> _Karen says, “I—I’m not sure how to describe it. But when you do get here,” she takes a deep breath, then breathes out, “please, remember: it’s real and you’re not dreaming.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Tom McRae's "Human Remains".

Foggy’s not—

Listen.

He’s. Moved on, sort of. At least he’s made it to the stage where Train doesn’t make him burst into tears, where he doesn’t find himself at a bar late at night trying to drown the grief in alcohol, where he’s coping in a healthy manner with grief and blame and anger.

He’s not—visiting _so_ much, anymore. He used to visit Matt’s grave every day or so, like if he’d drop by often enough Matt would get the hint and drop out of wherever the hell he was hiding, say _hi_ like he’d never died. Like Matt would just pop up at his own grave and apologize, for keeping him waiting.

He never did because. Well. _Dead._

He doesn’t visit so much as he used to. He’s cut it down to every few weeks, and it doesn’t quite feel so dreamlike anymore, standing over his best friend’s grave. See? Acceptance.

If he still feels his heart crack whenever Kirsten plays her old Train album in the office, then that’s no one’s business but his own.

Speaking of Kirsten—

“Hey, Nelson,” she says, as Foggy steps into the office, standing up from the desk, “were you ever going to tell me you knew Elektra Natchios?”

Foggy blinks at her. Elektra’s here? As _Elektra_? “Uh, yeah,” he says, thinking fast, “it just never came up. Why?”

“Well, she’s in your office,” says Kirsten, “and if you ask me she’s looking a little desperate.” She huffs out a breath. “I offered to help her out, but she said she wanted _you_ , god only knows why.” She frowns, says, “She also said something weird?”

A lead weight drops into Foggy’s stomach. “How weird?” he asks, hanging up his coat.

“Super weird,” says Kirsten. “What was it she said? Something about a hand with a long reach.”

Foggy breathes out, turns to Kirsten. She’s young, fresh from law school, itching to prove herself and also incidentally pay off her student loans. He’d been her, just two years ago. If Kirsten McDuffie, fresh-faced lawyer with something to prove, goes up against the Hand, she’s not going to make it to _next_ year.

He says, “Take the day off, Kirsten.”

She blinks at him. “What?” she asks. “Nelson, what are you talking about?”

“Just—take the day off,” Foggy says, grabbing her by the shoulders. She jumps, surprised, eyes wide in shock. “ _Please_ , Kirsten.”

Kirsten takes his hands off, gentle, and says, “What’s going on? Come on, talk to me.”

He wishes he could. He really does. But telling Kirsten exactly what the nature of Elektra’s case is means telling her about Elektra being the new Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, means telling her about Matt’s secret, and he can’t do that. Not yet.

He swallows, and says, “I just—whatever Elektra’s brought, it’s bad. _Real_ bad.” He doesn’t look at Matt’s old office, stripped now of everything Matt had moved into it. It’s Kirsten’s now, and he’s only just stopped seeing double whenever he walks in. “I can’t tell you more than that.”

“I think I can handle myself,” Kirsten says, so goddamn certain of herself that for a second Foggy thinks of Karen, with mace on her keychain.

“I know you can,” says Foggy. “But trust me, this is _way_ above your pay grade.”

“You barely pay me at all,” says Kirsten.

“I’ll give you a raise,” says Foggy.

“Can you even _afford_ one?”

“Just take the day off, McDuffie,” says Foggy. “Go and—be with your mom. She still needs you.”

Kirsten deflates, then, shakes her head. “You can’t just up and play that card when you want me out of trouble,” she says, but she picks her bag up, starts putting her files and her things inside.

“I let you pull the _late ‘cause I was visiting my dead best friend_ card when you want me to do things for you,” Foggy shoots back.

“Fair,” Kirsten concedes. “But you’ll call if you need me, right?”

Foggy swallows. “Yeah, of course,” he says, and the lie tastes bitter on his tongue.

\--

To be honest, he hadn’t expected Elektra to take up the mantle of protector of Hell’s Kitchen, after Matt’s death.

He _had_ expected her to take the first flight out of New York after the funeral, though, so it had been a shock when she first landed on his fire escape. She moved lightly on her feet, a product of the same training Matt went through, but on this one occasion she’d hit the metal grating with a loud, dull _thud_.

“What the _hell_ ,” Foggy had said, fresh from having almost been mugged. He hadn’t seen his savior well, then, but they’d wielded a pair of swords—

 _She’d_ wielded a pair of swords, apparently, because Elektra had calmly tugged her mask down and said, “Now, is that any way to greet someone who’s saved you from getting shot in an alleyway?”

That hadn’t been an auspicious reunion.

He _likes_ to think things have improved between them, sort of, in the time since Elektra’s settled into her role. Less screaming than there was at the start, for starters. Less awkward blubbering.

He opens the door to his office and blinks at her, dressed in a red shirt and dark pants. There are dark circles under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept, and a bruise on her cheek.

Her knuckles are split, just cleaned up.

She says, “Hello, Franklin.”

“Foggy,” says Foggy. “What’s up? I’m assuming it’s something serious, seeing as you took the time to talk to Kirsten and wait here for me instead of your usual _surprise, I’ve been stalking you_ routine.”

“You have to admit, it’s quicker on both of us that way,” says Elektra, which, well, she may be right but _still_. “She’s very competent, by the way. I like her.”

“You’re an asshole,” Foggy informs her, checking outside his door and noting that Kirsten’s gone—her bag is nowhere to be found, and her door is locked. “Maybe it’s quicker for you, but this way means I get less heart attacks.”

“This way also means more awkward explanations to your new partner,” Elektra points out. “And you sent her away, don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

“Because you _never_ meet up with me like this,” says Foggy, moving to the window, looking nervously around. “You went to all this trouble when you could’ve just dropped onto my fire escape as per usual. That means something’s wrong.”

“Observant,” says Elektra, and Foggy could swear she sounds almost impressed. “Very well, then: the Hand is back.”

Foggy turns, and says, voice admirably steady, “The—The Hand?”

“Yes,” she says.

“The evil ninja clan that—”

 _That killed Matt._ He can’t finish.

Elektra nods.

Foggy slumps into his chair and says, “I thought they were gone for good.”

“They never left,” says Elektra. “They slunk away into the shadows and waited for the right time to reemerge. It’s what they _do_.”

“So what are you going to do?” he asks her.

“I’m going to destroy the Hand, root and stem,” she says, and the conviction in her voice is worrying. It reminds him of Matt, the solid conviction in his voice when he said _the city needs me in that mask_. “That’s the only way to ensure they can’t hurt anyone else in this city again. Or anyone else at all.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” Foggy says, pushing away thoughts of Matt, _what if what if what if_. “This Hand group—if we can dig up a paper trail—”

“You can’t use legal channels to bring them down,” says Elektra. “They’ll weasel out of it, every time.” She stands up, and says, “Anyway, I didn’t come here to debate my methods with you. I came here to tell you to get out of the office and haul your overworked ass to the police precinct.”

Foggy says, “ _What?_ ”

“It’s the safest place to be for now,” says Elektra, smiling at him humorlessly. “You’ll be of great interest to the Hand, and if they try to abduct you, I’d rather make it difficult for them. Hence, the precinct.”

“I have a _deposition_ today,” says Foggy.

“Certainly you could go,” says Elektra, with a shrug, “but they could abduct you from your all-important deposition, easily. After all, they abducted Page once.”

And, damn it, she’s right. Foggy curses under his breath. “Fine,” he says, standing up and pulling out his drawers, packing files and folders into his bag. “ _Fine_.” He pauses, then looks up at her and her humorless smile. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “We barely knew each other. We didn’t even _like_ each other that much.”

The smile fades, and Elektra breathes out, hands reaching up to grip her forearms. “He would’ve wanted to protect you,” she says, and he doesn’t have to ask who she’s talking about. They both know it’s Matt, his ghost hanging over the both of them, always.

Matt’s first priority would’ve been getting him and Karen out of the line of fire.

Even if it meant pushing them out himself.

“You talked to Karen already?” Foggy says, because dwelling on Matt right now is not going to do him and his caseload any favors.

“I’m going to drop by the Bulletin after this,” Elektra says. “Why, do you want me to tell her anything?”

“Just to check up on the joint before she gets to the precinct,” says Foggy. “Besides that, nothing.” He hesitates, and says, “Be careful, Elektra.”

Elektra blinks at him, and for perhaps the first time since she saved his life in a dark and damp alleyway, smiles genuinely at him. “I always am,” she says.

\--

Karen calls him a few minutes after he makes it to the station, and says, “You’re going to want to see this.”

“Is it a death threat?” says Foggy. “Because once you’ve seen one you’ve seen pretty much all of them.”

“No,” says Karen, and—she sounds like she’s been crying, a little. “No, Foggy, this is—this is good news. Sort of. But I can’t—I can’t tell you about it over the phone. Can you come by the office?”

Foggy frowns at his phone for a moment, but says, “Well, sure. I’ll tell them I forgot a few files that I really need.” He shifts his grip a little, presses his phone against his ear with his shoulder as he hoists his bag back up onto his other shoulder. “Can you at least give me a hint as to what I’ll find when I get there?”

Karen says, “I—I’m not sure how to describe it. But when you do get here,” she takes a deep breath, then breathes out, “please, remember: it’s real and you’re not dreaming.”

\--

Karen opens the door a fraction when he gets there, and says, “Don’t shout.”

“Why would I shout?” says Foggy. “Karen, come on, end the suspense here. What did you find?” He pauses, then says, “Please tell me it’s not Kirsten’s secret stash of romance novels.”

“It is definitely not that,” says Karen, “and I already know where that is.” She breathes out and says, “No, this is—I think it’s best if you see for yourself. I’m not sure I believe it myself either.”

“I would,” says Foggy, “if you let me _see_.”

“Who’s there?” someone calls from the couch. Someone who sounds—weirdly like Matt. But that can’t be.

Karen steps aside, opens the door wider to let Foggy in.

When he steps inside, there’s a ghost in red and black sitting on the couch.

“What,” says Foggy, stunned, “the _fuck._ ”

Matt Murdock— _dead_ Matt Murdock—cocks his head in Foggy’s direction, draws his black cloak tighter around himself. And it’s a _cloak_ , with an actual hood, and underneath Foggy can see something red, he isn’t sure what.

—there’s a sword leaning against the couch. There are _daggers_ on the desk.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” says Foggy, again.

“You’re her friend?” says Matt, and it sinks into Foggy’s thick skull just then that he’s not-watching him with the wariness of someone who’s not sure who to trust.

“How are you not _dead_?” says Foggy, remaining admirably calm despite the fact that his dead best friend, _who he mourned_ , is sitting on his couch not-staring at him like he doesn’t recognize him. “ _How?_ ”

“Long story,” says Matt.

“Then make it short!”

“ _Don’t,_ ” says Karen. “Foggy, I know you want answers—”

“ _I buried him!_ ” says Foggy.

Matt flinches away, and says, “I—knew you?”

“Yes!” says Foggy, whipping around to him. “You know me! We were roommates in college, you were my partner, you were my best friend, _you’re dead._ ” His voice breaks, on the last phrase.

Matt tilts his head up, eyes fixing on a point near Foggy’s face. “I was,” he says. “The Hand brought me back.”

“Out of the goodness of their hearts, I’m sure,” says Foggy, bitterly.

“I’m not sure they even have hearts,” says Matt, and that—that startles a laugh out of him, and Karen as well. “No, they wanted the Black Sky. They got me, instead—they wanted to lure her in, I think. Using me.”

“Black what?” says Foggy.

“ _Her_?” says Karen.

Matt just cocks his head to the side. “She didn’t tell you?” he asks, which, no shit, no one ever tells Foggy anything. “The woman with the sai. The Black Sky.”

“Elektra?” says Karen. “No, she didn’t tell either of us.”

“It’s nothing new,” says Foggy.

Matt’s brow wrinkles up, his face scrunching up like he’s just smelled something bad. “She probably wanted to keep you both safe,” he reasons. “And here I am, dragging you further in.”

“We are here by _choice_ ,” Karen stresses.

“You called me out here without telling me what I was going to find,” Foggy points out. “Also, why did you call me out here, anyway? I mean, I’m glad that for once someone’s keeping me in the loop, but, uh. What am I supposed to do here?”

Karen jabs a finger into Foggy’s chest and says, “You’re going to be his lawyer.”

“ _What,_ ” says Foggy.

“ _What,_ ” says Matt, at the same time.

“He’s a witness,” says Karen.

“You can’t possibly think you can take down an ancient organization with its claws in everything using _the legal system_ ,” says Matt, bleakly. “They’ll find a way out. They always do.”

“An ancient organization like that knows how to delegate, though,” says Karen. “Maybe we can’t take them down completely. Fine. But we can destabilize their powerbase somehow by taking down key figures, screw up their operations—”

“—with information from a witness on the inside,” Foggy completes. He can see the logic that Karen’s working with, and he could almost approve. Almost. “Matt?” he says.

Matt huffs out a breath. “That’s doable,” he says, curling up on the couch and drawing the cloak tighter around him. Like this, he looks less like a ghost and more like the Matt that Foggy had known. Had buried. “Risky, though. I don’t know, I didn’t—I don’t want to drag you either of you even further into this. I can’t have either of you become targets because of me.”

And there’s the Matt Murdock Foggy knows, hating even the idea of dragging his loved ones into his mess.

“We’re not doing this because we’re dragged into this,” he says. “We’re doing this because, damn it, Matt, we’re _friends_.”

Present tense.

Matt stares up at him, sheer shock written across his face. Or—well, he stares at Foggy’s cheek, anyway, but the utter surprise on his face breaks Foggy’s heart, more than a little bit. This shouldn’t be a surprise. This should be a _given_.

“You don’t have to go back,” he says.

Karen kneels down, takes Matt’s hand in hers, the hope in her eyes laid bare for Foggy to see. “We’ll find some way to keep you safe,” she says. “Somehow. _Somehow._ ”

Matt tugs his hand out of hers, his face doing that—that thing, where it scrunches up like he’s overwhelmed and might actually cry. Foggy’s not really sure, his vision’s kind of swimming from the tears right now too.

“I don’t,” Matt starts, then he shakes his head. “I can’t leave. You don’t know the Hand, not like I do. Right now, the safest thing to do is play along with whatever they want—I break away now, they’ll go after you and everyone you love, and everyone _they_ love.”

“They’ve _done_ that,” starts Karen.

“They’ll do more than that,” says Matt. “I want to help, you want me out of the Hand, and the Black Sky seems to want the Hand gone.” He sighs. “Right now, I have more information about the Hand than I frankly know what to do with. I might as well unload somewhere, and you can get it to her and her friends.”

“What about you?” says Foggy.

“There’s stuff I don’t know yet that I plan to find out,” says Matt, eyes darting away and flicking downward. “The easiest way of getting that information would be staying in the Hand—they don’t have any reason to suspect I want to break from them, for now.” He smiles, and it’s a touch sardonic and a little dangerous, like the Matt Foggy buried. “They were thorough.”

Foggy’s not a violent man.

But if he had the chance to punch the Hand right in the face, especially if it was anyone responsible for doing this to Matt—he thinks he might just do it.

“So, okay, you’re going to leak info to us and we’re going to tell Elektra,” he says, instead. “I get that right?”

“Yeah,” says Matt, relaxing.

“Can’t you tell her yourself?”

“She’d try to kill me first,” says Matt.

“ _What,_ ” says Foggy. “But she loved you! I mean, you two crazy kids used to ditch me all the time in college!”

“ _What,_ ” says Karen. “You know what, that explains so much. Except the part where Elektra wants you dead.”

Matt cocks his head, and says, “Because I’m part of the Hand,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And she’s made it clear she thinks that I’m not—who I was.”

Man, these two crazy kids are fucked up as all hell.

“Not _was_ ,” says Karen, with conviction. “ _Are._ ”

“Was,” says Matt, simply. “The man you buried, the man I used to be—would he have done the things I’ve done?”

“What things?” Foggy asks, dreading the answer.

Matt tells them.

\--

“We have to help him,” says Karen, quietly, after Matt’s fallen back to sleep. It hadn’t been an easy thing to convince him to rest for a little while longer, after everything he’d told them, but somehow they’d managed it. Foggy’s been watching the windows ever since, terrified somehow that some ninja might crash through the windows, or kick their way in through the walls, or—

He hasn’t had the best few hours so far.

“And we will,” he says, peeking through the blinds. “We’ll get him out of there, but—he’s right. Goddammit, he’s right about where he can best help us.”

“We can’t just let him go back to them,” says Karen. “There’s a risk they’ll _know_.”

“It’s not a risk I want to take, either,” says Foggy, looking back at Matt, sleeping on the sofa. He looks so vulnerable and small, curled up into a ball. He looks like the man Foggy knew back in college, before everything, before Daredevil and the Hand and Matt dying. “But even if we tried to get him to stay here and be safe, how long do you think it’ll be until he does it anyway?”

Karen breathes out, shakes her head. “Dammit,” she murmurs. The answer hangs in the air between them: _not long at all._ “So what next? What do we do?”

“We go back to the precinct,” says Foggy. “Knight’s probably wondering where we’ve gone. And then we give Elektra the info Matt gave us. Hopefully she won’t think it’s unreliable and go after Matt, but just in case—”

“Witness protection,” says Karen, sardonic.

Foggy nods, then looks back out the window again, trying not to jump at every shifting shadow he spies.

He glances at Karen again, sees her crossing the room to kneel down and brush Matt’s hair back from his face. He makes a soft little noise.

It sounds like Elektra’s name.


End file.
